That Damn Bar Wench I Kissed
by sandra70
Summary: Is it really possible that Hook doesn't remember his encounter with Emma in the Enchanted Forest at all? And what if he actually remembers?


He was lying on the floor, fully clothed, when he woke up shortly before dawn, a dull throbbing in his head and a terrible taste in his mouth. _Must have been one blast of a night._ The last thing he clearly remembered was that he'd been in one of the hedge-taverns, a very amicable wench on either side of his, drinking and letting his loaded dice roll. Then suddenly, a shadow had fallen on the rough, beer-stained wood of the table, and when he'd looked up to see who was interrupting his evening amusement, he'd found himself face to face with a magnificent embonpoint almost falling out of a merely loosely tied corset. Intrigued, he'd let his gaze wander higher and found himself staring into a pair of tantalizing green eyes, framed by a cascade of blonde curls. She'd opened her luscious mouth, and words had tumbled out, but at that point his memory was already blurred.

Hook groaned and, with some effort, manoeuvred himself into a sitting position. _Well, bloody hell._ Given the fact that he was alone and still had his pants on, it was obvious that he hadn't made the best impression on either of the ladies. He growled when the move made his head throb even more, and his jaw felt like he'd been hit by a pole – or a really hard punch. Carefully, he tilted his head from one side to the other and rubbed his hand over his chin, trying to recall if he'd gotten into a fight, but his brain felt like a rotting sponge. He decided that he'd probably just bruised himself when he'd hit the floor.

And then he frowned and, following an instinct, touched his lips as if there was something he needed to remember, some vague feeling... but then he shook his head and dismissed it. _Must have been the rum._

And from that day on, he kept having those dreams every once in a while. Weird dreams. Not even real dreams, at least not that he could remember. It was barely more than the idea of silky softness against his fingers, the faint scent of cinnamon, the pale glimpse of an emerald light, the warmth of soft contours against his body, a trace of rum on his lips, mingled with something else, sweet and delicate... the mere shadow of a dream that created a sensation of peace and happiness. When he woke up, he didn't really remember anything but a vague impression of fulfillment and peace of mind that gradually faded away and was replaced by the usual restlessness and void. Somehow, he always had the strange feeling that it meant something, that it was important – but however hard he tried, he could never really remember any of it that went beyond the sensation of ghostly fingerprints left on his mind... sometimes on his soul. And although he desperately tried to grasp hold of that dream, it always slipped through his fingers, leaving only that painful emptiness.

Without even being aware of it, he was doing the same as – years and realms away – Emma was doing: searching for something, someone that he'd just _miss_ when he'd leave. He felt a restlessness he tried to still every once in a while; there was never a lack of eager women wherever he went, but every time he took one of them to his bed, it left him unsatisfied – except for the primal physical need – and even lonelier than before. Lonely and longing – alas, for what, he didn't know. He kept telling himself that he was looking for nothing else than his revenge on the Crocodile; that was his mission, the goal of his life. Why would he be looking for anything else? Then, when he'd have accomplished that task, he'd finally find peace and the wound would finally start to heal. His memories of Milah, painfully fading away over the centuries, and his quest for revenge were enough to nurture him, to keep him alive. They _had_ to be enough; they'd always been enough. He didn't need anything else. _He didn't._

Nowadays, though, those dreams didn't haunt him anymore; they gradually seemed to have faded away. And as he never really had been able to remember them, he could neither pinpoint the moment they'd stopped. Nowadays, his sleep was calm and deep and peaceful, and when he woke up in the middle of the night, then it was because Emma shifted in bed beside him – or because she woke him up deliberately. And those were _always_ happy occasions.

There wasn't any difference this night; when he woke up, automatically his left arm reached out for Emma, but she wasn't there: the bed beside him was empty. He opened his eyes and scanned the dark room that was only lit by the moonlight abundantly falling in through the large glass front of the windows looking directly on the harbor and the ocean. Emma was standing in front of the window, her arms wrapped around her torso as to warm herself up, and she was clad in nothing but one of his pirate shirts. She loved wearing them to bed from time to time, but usually they never stayed on for long; the sight of her creamy skin barely covered by the smoothly flowing black linen was just too tempting and did things to him that made him lose his composure. Of course, the wicked siren was perfectly aware of that. Right now, though, she seemed to be lost in herself, lost in thoughts. The expression on her face was soft, yet very far away.

He addressed her gently. "Swan? What are you doing?"

She smiled without turning around to look at him. "Nothing," she replied calmly, "just enjoying the view. It's really amazing."

Hook lifted himself up on his elbows and drank in the sight of her, the fabric of the loose shirt playing around the contours of her body, falling softly down over her thighs, the moonlight painting blue reflexes on it. The contrast of her blonde curls cascading over her shoulders and her back made the black seem even darker. "I can confirm that," he grinned.

Emma chuckled and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. "That's just the moonlight and the shirt."

"The shirt?" he echoed in an amused tone. "Well, that explains a lot, indeed."

Slowly, she turned her head to finally look at him. "Like what?" she asked suspiciously.

He tilted his head with a smirk. "Like you lusting after me for two years."

"Please." she snorted. "In your dreams. I didn't do such a thing."

His eyes bore into hers, and even in the moonlit darkness she could see how he crinkled his nose in that challenging way of his as he replied: "That's a bloody lie, and you know it."

She withstood his stare. "Is it, now?"

Obviously, she didn't have any intention to move away from the spot where she was standing, so he threw back the sheets and swung his long legs out of bed. Emma grinned and turned her eyes away from him again; she knew that he was naked and wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of admiring him now. It was the usual little game they enjoyed playing from time to time – him being overconfident about his looks and charm, her rebuking him for it, whereas they both knew she adored him as much as he her, and he on the other hand still didn't understand how he got so lucky. It was their thing. Slowly, he sauntered over to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, leaning a little forward, bringing his lips close to her left ear.

"It is," he purred, and she shivered at the feeling of his hot breath licking over the side of her throat, "and it doesn't require any superpower to detect it."

She relaxed into his body and leaned comfortably back into his arms, unfolding her own and lacing the fingers of her right hand through his. With her left arm she reached behind over her shoulder and ran her fingers through his hair at the back of his head. "Maybe I stole a little look," she sighed, "from time to time."

"And who could blame you," he hummed, his voice soft and low, and turned his head a little to press a kiss to her palm.

She chuckled again. "You're unearthly," she scolded softly and let her hand glide down along his face, enjoying the rough feeling of his scruff against her skin.

"Aye, so I've been told," he replied smoothly and, deciding to lift the teasing up to the next, more carnal level, he brushed his lips across the spot behind her left ear, coaxing a little sigh from her. Carefully, he unlaced his fingers from hers and combed them tenderly through her hair falling over her shoulder, letting his fingertips caress her upper arm through the soft fabric of the shirt.

"Smoother than silk," he murmured, and with a little laugh she snuggled even deeper into his embrace. Her hand caressed his left arm that was firmly draped over her stomach, holding her close. Gently, she cupped the curve of his mutilated wrist with her palm and traced the scar with her thumb. Unlike in the very beginning of their intimate knowledge of each other, he didn't flinch anymore. To her, it was the most natural thing in the world, and the feeling of his stump was as familiar as his hand or his hook. The ease she'd always displayed when touching it had made all his insecurity about his alleged physical incompleteness fade away. He raised his hand to her temple and brushed his knuckles over her skin, his touch lighter than a butterfly's wing's. Slowly, he trailed her cheekbone and her jawline and lingered for a moment on the little dimple in her chin. Then he painted the contours of her slightly parted lips with his index and middle finger and murmured into her hair: "So soft..."

Emma smiled and pressed a kiss against his fingertips. He let them wander a few times down and up her throat in an ever-so-light caress that made the rhythm of her pulse speed up gradually. Every nerve end in her skin was tingling, and she relaxed safely into his arms, her head falling back and resting against his shoulder, her eyes closed. His hand traveled lazily downward, and for a moment his fingers slipped into the low neck of the carelessly buttoned shirt and touched the tender skin between her breasts. She breathed in deeply, and he withdrew his hand only to rest it lightly above her heart on the smooth, cool linen. His lips curved into a smile when he felt her heart rate speed up as well, and he traced the soft curve of her left breast that filled his hand so perfectly. The taut peak pushed into his palm through the ancient fabric, and he tilted his head slightly to the left to purr in her ear: "So eager..."

She bumped her temple softly against his scruffy cheek, and he circled her nipple twice with his thumb, coaxing another sigh from deep within her chest. When her back arched involuntarily, his hand trailed down over her front, fingers spread, the warmth of his palm seeping through the linen heated up her stomach and set her whole body afire. When his fingers had reached the line of her pubic bone and crossed it, Emma pushed herself away from his body and made an attempt to turn around; wanting, needing to look at him, to frame his face with her hands, to kiss him. But with a quick and determined move of his left arm that was still circling her waist, he pulled her back to him, not allowing her to escape.

"Uh-uh-uh, Swan," he whispered huskily, "where do you think you're going?" She felt the muscles of his left forearm twitch when it tightened around her waist, not giving her any room to move away. "You'll stay right here where you are," he told her firmly, the tone of his voice permitting no objection. She felt the heat of his bare skin through the fabric of the garment.

"Killian..." she urged, a plea in her voice, and he brushed his lips over her temple.

"I know," he replied in an almost soothing voice, so low it hummed deep in her belly. "I know. Shhhhh." His fingers crawled deeper, almost tentatively dipping into her core now, and she bit her lip and made an involuntary sound in her throat, which obviously satisfied him. "So _ready._" She felt more than she heard his soft, devilish chuckle. "Relax, love. I'm going to take real good care of you now."

Suddenly, her legs seemed to be made of rubber, and she was glad that he was holding her strongly against his body because she didn't trust her knees anymore. She grasped his left forearm with both hands and held on to him really tight, her thighs automatically parting a little to give his searching hand better access.

"That's a good girl," he murmured and flicked his tongue over her earlobe, "just lean back. I got you."

And Emma abandoned herself completely in the sensation of his firm, but gentle fingers touching, fluttering, invading, caressing, playing, brushing, teasing, pillaging and plundering her most intimate spot in the most tender, passionate, self-confident and caring way. All the warmth coursing through her veins – and she had the impression that it flowed from his body directly into hers – seemed to concentrate and pool in the center of her being, leaving her head empty and dizzy, while she was writhing under his hand. As if they had a will of their own, her hips started to move, to _sway _even, her rhythm matching his, almost like they were dancing. The sounds she made were the accompanying music – she sighed and moaned and whispered his name again and again, along with breathless pleas and incoherent words only she understood.

When he felt her walls start to clench and tremble around his fingers, he held her pressed even more firmly against his front and encouraged her: "There you are, Emma... don't hold back," he breathed into her ear. "Let go for me, my love, you know you want to. Let go."

For her, it was almost a relief when she finally fell over the edge with a little cry, the fingers of her left hand digging into his arm, her right hand shooting down to cover his and holding it right where it was – cupping her pubic mound firmly with his palm, holding it securely in his touch until the trembling and twitching of her flesh subsided.

She let out a deep, shaky breath, and he kissed her temple again, her hair now a little damp with perspiration, and murmured in a low voice, almost as if he were soothing a child: "It's all good, Emma. It's good."

Finally, he loosened his grip around her waist a little, and immediately she turned around in his arms, just to find him looking down at her with an unspeakable loving expression, peppered with only the tiniest hint of smugness. _Always a pirate. _

He tilted his head and flashed her that mischievous grin. "My apologies for distracting you from the view, love."

Emma averted her eyes for a second and snorted an adorable little laugh. "I was hoping you'd wake up anyway," she replied.

"Oh?" His eyebrows shot up. "Then why even leave the bed? Why didn't you just wake me up, like you normally do in the middle of the night, when you get..." - he waved his hand, and his sinful tongue slipped out to moisten his lips - "..._urges?_"

She rolled her eyes and slapped his bare chest with the back of her hand, but not very forcefully. It was more of a rough caress. "Not because of _that,_" she clarified.

His eyes twinkled in amusement. "Then because of what, Swan?" he wanted to know. His left forearm rested lightly on the small of her back, and his fingers were smoothing out her hair. Her gaze was drawn to the small nook at the base of his throat, and she raised her right hand to run her fingertips along his left collarbone in a sweet, but almost absentminded caress.

"Killian, I..." she licked her lips a little nervously. "I have a confession to make," she finished and hiked her eyes up to his with determination. Much to her surprise, she saw his face fall and grow white like a sail, like all the blood had been drained from it. His hand let go of her hair and slowly sank down where it was dangling uselessly at his side. "Killian?" she prompted softly. "What's wrong?"

"What did you just say?" he asked tonelessly.

Emma frowned. "What?"

"What did you just _say_?" he repeated almost sharply. "Say it again!"

"Why?" She was absolutely clueless and tried to read in his eyes what was on his mind, but there was no chance. He seemed upset, even shocked in the first place, like he'd seen or heard something completely and utterly unbelievable. She put her hand to his face. "Killian, you're being weird."

"Emma, please." He grasped her shoulder with an unmistakable urge, and the stormy, unreadable expression in his eyes really started to worry her now. "_Say – it – again._"

"I said – I have a confession to make," she repeated pointedly. "Hook, will you now tell me what..."

His hand fell from her arm and his jaw dropped. He stared at her like she had seen him do it only once – like he wanted to drill a hole in her head. "That was _you?_" he asked tonelessly.

She still had no clue what he was talking about. "What do you mean?" she demanded to know, her voice starting to get a little impatient now.

Hook blinked twice and shook his head, as if to clear it of some cobwebs. "_I have a confession to make_," he echoed slowly. "That bar wench said that to me. That evening, in the tavern..." His voice trailed off.

She knew immediately what he was referring to, but remained oblivious to the actual meaning of his words, to why remembering that particular occasion now seemed to have upset him that much. "Well, technically I didn't say it to _you_," she replied with a shrug, "I said it to, well, the _other_ you, and..." She interrupted herself and shook her head, mirroring his earlier gesture, before she tried to recollect her thoughts. "Wait, but you - _you_ weren't there! You couldn't possibly know..." And then the dubloon dropped. Her eyes widened when she realized what that meant, what it _had_ to mean, and she stared back at him with the same expression he'd worn before: complete and utter disbelief. "You... _remember?_"

She pierced him with her stare, but he didn't even see her; his gaze was miles away, years – decades even. Images were appearing before his eyes, images from the past; images that – he realized now – had been haunting him in his dreams for a long time, but had been way too vague and blurred for him to really grasp them. But now they were all the clearer: the semi-darkness of a tavern, filled with loud and uncouth voices and a cacophony of sounds... him sitting on a rough wooden bench, face to face with the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, a woman you'd never have expected to see in that kind of hedge-tavern – face to face with his Swan, as he now realized. Suddenly the scene was so clear before his eyes as if he'd lived through it – and that was exactly what had happened, her casual words had brought that to the surface: he _had_ lived through it, it was _real_. Thirty years ago, he'd met the love of his life, and then lost her, only to find her again twenty-eight years later, when she'd tied his lying arse to a tree. Of course, he hadn't been aware of it then...

_I have a confession to make._

_Most women do._

"You asked how I got the hook," he murmured and focused on her face again. She was here now, her beautiful green eyes scrutinizing him intensely with a mix of wonder, curiosity, and above all – pure and utter _love_. Here with him. It had always been her. Slowly, he nodded his head once. "Aye." He swallowed thickly. "I remember."

He still couldn't believe it, and judging from the look on Emma's face, neither could she. The Dark One had told them that, after their little time travel adventure, everything would go back to normal – and there was hardly anyone who knew more about the rules of magic than the damn old Crocodile. So, Hook had always been convinced that he hadn't remembered _that damn bar wench he'd kissed_ – and that he hadn't gone after her, had seemed to be the ultimate proof. But obviously, the reason for that was that he hadn't _really_ remembered her – the memory of her just had kind of been locked away in the back of his head, the most hidden corner of his heart, buried at the very bottom of his old and damaged soul. But by innocently using that line she had once offered him in a husky, flirty voice, Emma had triggered that memory, unearthed it and set it free to float to the surface.

She was still too taken aback, overwhelmed maybe, to speak, and obviously waited for him to say something. He raised his hand, put his fingertips to her face and traced his thumb over her lower lip, as if he needed to make sure that here and now, it wasn't a dream – _she_ wasn't a dream. That she was real, that she was there with him. "It was _you_, all the time," he finally said. "Those dreams that haunted me... they weren't dreams. They were _memories._" He swallowed again, and the way his Adam's apple moved showed how much effort it cost him. When he continued to speak, his voice almost broke. "I didn't even know it, but... all those years I've been looking for _you._"

Tears welled up in Emma's eyes when she fully realized what that all meant. Even after all she'd experienced since Henry had knocked at her apartment door in Boston more than two years ago, after all the unbelievable things, fairytale worlds and magical creatures she'd learned to accept as real and true, nothing could ever have prepared her for this. She'd always thought that her mother's words about fate and True Love had been meant more like an encouragement to believe, to hope... but now she knew that they were the truth: _if you love them and they love you, they will always find you. _Literally_._ When she'd met Hook's past self in that tavern, she'd already been in love with him, oh yes. She might not have been aware of it yet – or at least in the state of denial – but she knew it now. She didn't know anything about Killian's dreams he'd just mentioned – but obviously, that encounter had left its imprints on his soul and had made him look for something, maybe without even being aware of it.

And suddenly, so many pieces fell into place...

_Happy endings always start with hope._

_I was hoping it'd be you._

_Everything we need is right in front of us._

And, above all:_ If you love them and they love you, they will always find you._

She raised her left hand and put it on his, holding his palm against her cheek. "And you found me."

"And I found you." He tilted his head, and his stare locked with hers, and she could see that he was as churned up inside as she was. For a few moments they stood just there, motionless, sunken into each other's eyes, and then he leaned forward and brought his lips to her forehead, pressing a light, yet lingering kiss to it. Emma closed her eyes, and a single tear rolled down the apple of her cheek, rounded by a blissful, happy smile.

When he leaned back again, she opened her eyes and searched for his, and she saw the same awe and happiness mirrored on his face she was feeling herself. His ocean blue eyes were shining and glittering, and like always he proved to be a real man who wasn't ashamed to show his emotions. The brightness of his smile almost blinded her. She had no idea how all this was even possible, after what Gold had told them about everything being back to normal after their crazy time-travel adventure, but now she knew that it was true. It was obvious that Killian remembered their encounter, he actually _remembered_ – and all those years when she'd felt abandoned, unloved and alone he'd been out there, restlessly looking for her, since before she'd even been born.

She grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him down to her to kiss him passionately, not being able to hold back her overwhelming emotions any longer. When he returned the kiss as fiercely, she flung her arms around his neck and, in a sudden move, actually jumped him, wrapping both her arms and legs around him tightly. Taken by surprise, he stumbled forward by the sudden impact of weight and steadied himself against the window front with his hand, holding her weight only with the left arm. Emma laughed breathlessly against his mouth, never breaking their kiss, and combed both her hands through his hair, messing it up completely. After a few endless moments, their lips parted and they both gasped for air.

"Time to go to bed, Swan," he urged breathlessly, but she shook her head with a smile.

"No," she replied and leaned back a little, loosening the grasp of her thighs around his waist just enough to be able to reach down between their bodies with her right hand. "I'm tired of waiting." And with firm, but gentle fingers she found his rigid flesh that had been pressing against her core already, steel wrapped in feverish satin, and guided him inside her.

When he felt her welcoming warmth tighten around him, _claiming_ him, his eyes grew the darkest shade of midnight blue, and his perfect mouth curved into a happy, yet devilish grin. He steadied himself better against the window and, pulling her closer with his left arm around her waist, replied in that low voice: "If the lady insists..."

He started to move slowly, gently while resting his forehead against hers. Emma held on to him like to dear life with her arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, and rocked her hips in sync with his. She smiled down at him, her hair cascading down on them, framing both their faces. Soon their breathing quickened as their rhythm was picking up pace, and it wasn't long until Emma had the feeling that her head was spinning from all the adrenaline and hormones rushing through her blood as she abandoned herself in the whirling abyss of passion. Then she noticed that Hook had pushed himself away from the window and had started to walk them backwards.

When he'd reached the bed, they tumbled down on it, both landing on their sides. But they held on to each other so close that the connection between their bodies was never broken; he'd come to lie on his left side and she on her right, and they were facing each other while he was still inside her. As they didn't have to hold up their weight now, their hands were free to roam and caress; Emma's hands framed his face, her left hand threading through his already messed-up hair, while he'd put his hand on her left hip, fingers widely spread. He pulled her body firmly into his, into an angle that allowed him to push himself even deeper into her, causing her to gasp; with that and her left leg draped over his waist, the feeling was so intense that it didn't take them long before they both reached dizzying heights of pleasure.

Killian simply couldn't take his eyes off of her and watched her intently while he kept moving inside her, _with_ her in a powerful rhythm. As always, he was amazed by her beauty and grace and the absolute abandonment she wasn't afraid to show when she was with him. Her back was arched, pushing her hips forward to meet each of his thrusts with equal intensity, and her head was thrown back, eyes closed, totally lost in their lovemaking. Her face was flushed, and tiny beads of perspiration were glistening on her silky skin like precious pearls. Her breath came out through slightly parted lips in short moans and sighs with a rising frequency. When he noticed that her grasp on his hair grew tighter and her whole body started to tremble, he knew she was close, _so_ close; and so was he.

"Emma," he gasped in a hoarse voice, "my love, look at me."

He needed to see it, needed to see the look in her eyes when she fell apart; that would forever be his most favorite thing in the world about her, to look right into the core of her very soul. Because in those moments, every veil fell, when her body and soul and heart were one; and all of it, all of her substance, all of her entire _being_, was _his_.

Her eyes flew open when she heard his voice through the rush of her own blood; she always had been a slave to that velvety voice, whether it was soft or commanding, she couldn't help it. And as always, he looked at her with that mix of passion, triumph and utter love that blew her off her feet completely – but this time paired with an equal amount of wonder and disbelief, and it came to her mind again what they'd just discovered. That he remembered, actually _remembered_ an encounter between them in another life, another realm, that had taken place before she'd even been born – and it meant nothing more and nothing less than that their love was timeless. She smiled when she felt her orgasm crawl up from her toes.

"It's always been you," she breathed; then she fell apart.

He pulled her even closer, their bodies shaking together, and held her tight while they lay still, listening to their slowly decelerating heartbeats. Emma refused to disconnect from him and let her leg where it was, draped over him, while she curled against his chest like a cat, her head tucked under his chin, her forehead resting against his throat. The tip of her nose was tickled by his damp chest hair. A delightful heaviness crawled into her bones while his fingertips caressed her back through the now damp fabric of his shirt she was still wearing, and he kissed her on the crown of her head. This was the safest place of the world; this was home.

When she was just about to drift to sleep, his voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper. "Emma?"

She didn't even bother to open her eyes. "Hmmm?"

"What we were talking about earlier..."

Now her eyes flew open. She'd totally forgotten about that. "Yes..."

"You know how I got my hook," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "So, what confession is it that you have to make?"

She yawned. "It can wait until tomorrow, Killian. Really."

"Swan..." he purred in a low voice. "Come on. It's obviously important enough to disturbe your sleep."

It was clear that he wasn't going to let go of the issue now. Emma sighed and slipped reluctantly out of his embrace, lifting herself into a sitting position. "Okay. If you insist." She pulled her knees up to her chest.

"I do, love," he replied and put his arms behind his head, looking at her with some expectance.

She nodded and combed her hair behind her ears with both hands. "Okay," she repeated, and he frowned a little at the hint of nervousness in her voice. "I know," she began, "that we've been together only for a rather short time..."

He smiled. "Aye, but we were always meant to be," he interrupted softly and scratched behind his ear. "I think we've established that now."

Emma smiled briefly, too, but didn't turn her eyes to him. "Yeah, well." she shrugged. "Anyway, I..." she chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then she drew a deep breath and turned to face Hook. "I'm pregnant," she told him without further preliminaries.

He didn't do so much as flinch, and much to her surprise, he didn't seem to show any reaction at all. Now, she wasn't sure what she had expected, but surely not _that_. He slowly sat up and just gave her a calm, earnest look. "How do you feel about it?" he wanted to know.

She swallowed. "When I was expecting Henry," she began, "I was sad all the time." She was looking at him, but somehow it seemed like she wasn't even there, like her mind was lost somewhere, wandering back in time. "I was afraid and alone," she added. Hook was listening intently and scrutinizing her even more closely. "The day he was born," she finally went on, "was the happiest and the saddest day of my life, and I swore to myself to never go through something like that again." He saw the vague remembrance of very old pain, the faint throbbing of a scar inflicted a long time ago, and all he wanted to do was to pull her back into his safe embrace and soothe it away, but he could see that she wasn't done talking yet. So he did what was the only right thing to do: he listened. He had the feeling that what she was about to say was going to be important. "Just like I swore to myself to never let anyone get near me again," she continued her confession, "to never love anyone again." With a sheepish smile she added: "Or let anyone love me." Her eyes suddenly seemed to return to the present, focusing on him again with a barely perceptible, yet clearly hopeful smile. "Little did I know that there was someone out there... looking for me." His jaw clenched, and he averted his gaze only for the tiniest moment before he fixed it on hers again, his eyes glinting with that smile. Emma shrugged, unaware of what her words meant to him. "Things are different now. This child..." she looked down herself and automatically put one of her hands to her still flat stomach, and the gesture made Killian's heart leap, "...it will have a good life with a wonderful family, a father..." she looked up at him again and raised her chin in that stubborn way of hers; but it was a good stubbornness this time. " I'm still afraid," she finally confessed. "But I'm not alone anymore."

Finally, she was done talking, and he smiled that tiny smile that was only for her. "No, you're not," he simply replied.

Emma nodded slowly and swallowed, still nervous. He hadn't really said anything yet, after all. But she needed to know. "And how... how do _you_ feel about it?"

He narrowed his eyes and threw her a disbelieving glance. "Me?" Slowly, he turned his head from one side to the other. "Don't you know, Emma?" She swallowed, not sure what he was aiming at, and fixed her eyes on his face. "You know," he went on, "when you told me you were in love with me... I thought I was the luckiest man in this realm. Or any realm." He smiled and reached out for her, taking one of her locks in his hand and letting it run through his fingers. "Looks like now I really am."

She knew she should be happy with his answer; happy that her news, that they were going to be parents, apparently were the culmination of everything he'd ever dreamed of. And she _was_ happy about it, she really was. It was only..._ I wished for once I were enough_. The moment that thought had popped up in her mind, Emma already felt guilty about it; it was absurd, and she was being too sensitive. "Because a child makes it all complete," she murmured with a faint smile.

"No," he contradicted softly, much to her surprise, "because _you_ make it complete." She frowned a little, not exactly understanding what he was saying. He tilted his head and cocked his eyebrows. "Don't misunderstand me, Swan, it's wonderful that you're making me a father, but..." He smiled and brushed the lock tenderly behind her ear. "The most wonderful thing is what you just said – the way _you_ feel about it... that you've finally understood and accepted it and actually _believe_ it." Her beautiful emerald eyes were still full of questions, and so he put it in words for her: "Understood that you're not alone anymore. That you're loved and that I'm not going to leave you. _Ever._" The ultimate evolution. He was right: she hadn't even been aware of it, but she had just declared her faith in her own destiny, her faith in him – her faith in the fact that she was worth not to be left. And that was enough to make him happy. _She_ was enough. And as if that didn't suffice to make tears well up in her eyes, he added: "I told you it's you, Emma... just _you_. Everything else is just a wonderful addition."

She swallowed hard. Damn that man and his instinct to always say the right thing. How was he even real? She kept her composure with superhuman effort only. "Henry's not the only one who made me believe in something, I guess. Or in myself." She smiled at him through her tears, and Killian understood; she didn't need to say more, not now. He knew she would eventually. He wrapped his left arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him, leaning back onto the headboard. She let herself sink against him with a sigh, her head resting against his shoulder, tucked under his chin, and wrapped her left arm over his chest. "A little more enthusiasm would be in order, though," she teased.

"There's really a little pirate in you," he murmured into her hair, his voice full of wonder now.

"We don't know that yet," Emma contradicted, "maybe it's a princess."

Killian chuckled. "Oh, I wasn't talking about the child's gender," he replied. "Whether it's a boy or a girl, it'll always be a pirate. I shall see to that."

She pressed a kiss to his throat. "Only if you teach him or her good form."

"Oh, I will. And I will teach him or her how to sail. How to fight with a sword." He smiled into the dark. "How to love yourself."

Emma's fingers were drawing patterns into his chest hair. "And what will be my part?" she asked playfully, her heart so light now.

"You will teach him or her how to stand up for yourself, love," he told her and ran his fingers up and down her forearm. "How to believe." He kissed her on the crown of her head. "How to follow your heart." She heard that his voice almost broke a little with his last words, but didn't see the single tear rolling down his cheek.

She wrapped her arm tightly around his torso and her left leg over his, like she never wanted to let go of him, and buried her face against his chest, eyes closed. "You really think I'm qualified for that?"

"Aye," he replied without hesitation. "You might have taken a devious route, but in the end you did follow your heart, and look where it took you." He reached for the sheet and pulled it up, covering them, enveloping them in their own private safe harbor.

She whispered, barely still awake, but loud enough for him to hear: "_Home._"

* * *

_**A/N:**_

This story is fully and completely dedicated to my wonderful muse _**Silvia**_ \- she always wantes to explore the idea what if Killian actually remembered somehow _that damn bar wench he'd kissed_?

And from the moment I came up with the description of Emma's new apartment in the epilogue of _**Smooth Sailing **_she was obsessed with that huge window front and demanded a love scene there... and well, let me tell you how it works with my muse: she makes the demands, and I follow them.


End file.
